o n t h e t e c h n i c a l i s s u e s o f a c r o t c h e t y M a r c h d a y

Say you have an umbrella. It is raining. The corpulent globules are soaking your skin, your glasses, the raggedy college sweatshirt you are wearing. The pressing question: where will you place your dripping umbrella once the cloudburst stops? Place it between the cracks of the sidewalk. Hide it in the folds of March's frowns. Lose it on the seats of the subway, between the legs of the trial attorney headed towards Judiciary Square, under the pages of the newspaper article entitled, Lawson to speak at VDOT meeting. Wear it like a rosary. Plant it, and spread infant parasols around the world.